


Stripped Down to the Bone

by furorem



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25239754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furorem/pseuds/furorem
Summary: Holden suffers the consequences of juggling his new relationship and ever demanding career.
Relationships: Holden Ford/Bill Tench
Comments: 17
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is partially inspired by what happened to John Douglas. I’m sorry my dude. Title taken from the song Stripped by Depeche Mode.

He’s dying. He knows he is, feels it: he’s burning up; he’s unable to move his body; at the edge of his vision Ed Kemper slowly walks towards him while speaking, sounding like if he’s underwater _the use of reason is to justify the obscure desires that move our conduct, impulses, passions, prejudices and follies, and also our fears._ A cacophony of mad laughter - Berkowitz, Manson, Williams, Hansen - accompanies Holden as he tries to reach the phone. 

And all he can think about is Bill.

…

During the endless nights of stake outs, near the buzzing waters of Atlanta’s bridges, Holden tries to rebuild one of his own that had caught fire but luckily wasn’t burnt down yet. He’s not alone in this endeavor. Bill, despite the fact that he suffers from work-induced insomnia and the strain of familial obligations, meets him halfway and builds that bridge with him, brick by brick.

Holden is not quite sure how to assess Bill’s attempt to do so, to create something new on top of the base of the old and ruined. Since Bill has distanced himself from the situation and from Holden, and because the case is eating so much of his capacity to deal with private stuff, he has a hard time reading the other man; his motivations and intentions. It was so much easier when they were still spending nearly every minute together, practically living in each other's pockets.

It’s the will to understand, the will to build that bridge which makes Holden say something incredible bold and incredible stupid one night near the buzzing waters of Atlanta. He thought about it long and hard. Emphasize on thought. It was in the privacy of his head, unspoken and festering like an open wound.

“Bill?”

The older man takes a last drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke out the opened window before the cigarette stub follows. There are dark circles under his eyes as he turns to regard Holden with tired eyes.

“I’d like to tell you something. Make a confession so to speak.”

His eyes are fixed on Bill, waiting for a reaction, hands nervously fiddling in his lap. A small smile appears on Bill’s face, “I’m not a priest, Holden.”

For a second Bill’s lazy smile, the cloying smell of nicotine and the damp heat of Atlanta are too much for his senses. Overwhelmed and second-guessing his decision, he turns his head towards the bridge and its blinding lights in the darkness. Heart pounding against his ribs, he takes a deep breath and turns back to Bill, who now regards him with curiosity and worry. Exhaling the tension, he says, like ripping off old scab, “I’m attracted to men.” His voice isn’t wavering to his surprise. It’s steady and calm as the river running by. Bill is silent, looking at him. Stunned. In the near distance birds sing their nightly song, cicadas joining them. Holden doesn’t have the feeling he’s angry or disgusted, just caught off-guard, processing the information. So Holden continues. 

“Not exclusively. I enjoyed being with Debbie. I mean, I think I really loved her. But, you know, I sometimes look at other men and wonder what it’d be like and if I could catch their eye.” Bill is still silent, not turning away from Holden’s intense gaze, not reading between the lines or maybe doing it and ignoring the implications at the same time. Strangely enough this part was easy to say, but the words Holden would really like to say have to be forced out. But they need to be said, no matter how painful, if he wants to cleanse the wound.

“I –”

He can’t.

Instead he says something else, something less risky, although just as true, to guide the conversation into its desired outcome, “Sometimes I wonder if that makes me like them.”

For the first time, Bill speaks, “Like who?”

“The guy killing these children. The guys we’re interviewing.”

“Jesus Christ. Listen – ” One hand is fumbling for a new cigarette, betraying how Holden’s words have wormed themselves past his hard exterior, the other is holding onto the steering wheel. For support? To ground himself? He lights the cigarette one-handed, head turning away from Holden.

It infuriates him.

Holden wants Bill to look at him, _really_ look at him, is chanting _look look look_ in his head.

“There is a big difference between these crazy fuckers and yourself. Believe me. If you can’t trust yourself, trust me, okay? You can’t say shit like that, Holden. These guys? They get off on pain and violence and torture. Is that what you want?”

“No.” _I want you to look at me._ _I want_ you _._

Finally, Bill catches his eyes again, “Of course not. What _you_ feel is so - widely different from these people, it’s not even in the same league.”

The reassurance and fierce protectiveness of his words wash over Holden in warm waves, calming parts of his shuddering soul after having spent a long winter in the cold, it doesn’t change the fact however that he was unable to confess the true crime, that, “Not according to the law in Virginia.”

“Oh please. You know as well as I do that’s complete bullshit.”

Bill doesn’t specify what he means. He doesn’t need to.

The upset lines around his mouth and on his forehead disappear and shaking his head he goes back to smoking in silence, not looking at Holden. The conversation is over.

A new understanding has been created between them but not the one Holden was originally looking for. He swallows his disappointment and thanks Bill quietly instead. He ought to be lucky, grateful even. But he was never the type to settle for half-assed. Now wasn’t the time, though. For now, he had to make do with the foundation they laid.

… _And_

Holden and Wendy, and Holden supposes a whole bunch of other people working in the department, are aware that something is wrong with Bill. After Atlanta he loses weight, not much, enough to be of concern though, he smokes more and looks like a man haunted by something. Most days he’s the first to come and last to leave; if he’s at the Bureau at all. Ever since Atlanta more and more requests reach them. Holden and Wendy and Greg share secretive glances (and conversations), yet no one dares to say anything.

It takes a while for him to confide in them, to tell them that Nancy had left, leaving him with nothing, deservingly so. It comes out of nowhere. It’s a beautiful sunny Wednesday and they’re having their lunch outside, talking about the manual they’re writing, about the cases arriving from all other the country, Holden’s next flight, and Bill tells them. It bubbles out of him and when he’s done, his whole body crumples, tumbling like a house of cards. The next day the ring on his finger is gone.

Holden is Bill’s colleague – friend? – first and foremost, however he can’t help but feel hopeful when he sees the missing ring; becomes a witness to the ugliness of the separation. Picking up strangers at clubs in states where this kind of thing is allowed isn’t what he wants and what he envisioned when he had _that_ conversation with Bill at Atlanta. He’s desperate to have his feelings reciprocated – he’s also desperate to make Bill happy, to make him feel wanted, for him to not feel lonely and miserable.

… _And_

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, he guesses. He didn’t think their meeting would end like this, although he might have tried to orchestrate it to lead into that direction, _Last week I had a date with this weird guy. I figured he wasn’t my type_. Holden hoped, of course, has been hoping for months now, giving subtle (and not so subtle) hints that all Bill had to do was say the right words; not even that, all it needed was a look, a touch. 

Compared to the first time he’d been to the house, it’s barren, lacking the familiar touches of a housewife, of a family life. Not necessarily a bad thing. Instead it’s filled with things Bill deems important to himself. This time there’s no hiding behind the perfect family picture, it’s purely Bill wherever his eyes swivel – the book case, the new blue sofa, the low coffee table, tell-tale signs of someone busy living here: dirty dishes in the kitchen, case files on the small dining table. He likes it. Then there’s no time to contemplate the state of the house any further. Having closed the door, Bill steps up behind him, engulfing him and kissing his neck, sending delicious shivers down his spine. Their needs are turned towards something else. Towards stumbling to the bedroom, giddy like teenagers.

Somehow Bill ends up being the first one to be completely nude, unashamed in it, letting Holden’s hungry hands roam along his body as he pleases. His only condition is to kiss him while he’s at it, one hand slung around Holden’s head, fingers buried in his hair, tongue in his mouth. He’s thorough, and so very skilled it’s ridiculous, his tongue gliding sensually against Holden’s to taste him but only for a second before he retreats, nipping on his lips, leaving Holden wanting more, just to give it to him, satisfied with the mewling sounds he can coax out of Holden as his mouth is ravished and pleasure races through his body. 

He’s never been this turned on in his life. Debbie probably came close, but this is on a whole new, different level. Maybe it has something to do with Bill – his character, his presence, his body – who speaks to all the desires Holden has buried within him and which Bill is unearthing with skilled hands. He’s needy and easy as Bill undresses him with steady fingers, his mouth descending on every patch of skin he reveals. His lips travelling along Holdeb's neck and his clavicle and his pecs are like little lightning bolts striking all the right places, and seeing him crouching down in front of Holden, kissing above his groin – where pleasure is coiling – vulnerable and eager and just as hungry, to rid Holden’s swelling need of its confides has him throwing his head back, eyes squeezed shut and moaning as he clutches Bill’s shoulders against the rising waves of lust.

His wanton display is all it takes for Bill to push him back onto the mattress, and follow, lying on their sides. Holden feels like touching him, letting his fingers explore and so he does it. He feels like kissing him again, seeking that exhilarating feeling swooping through his insides, so he does it. They’re both hard and shaking with released endorphins. But it doesn’t matter for the moment. All the time in the world stretches before them. Their kisses and touches are slow and unhurried; a lazy summer afternoon at home while the sun is beating down on already warmed skin.

When Bill finally caves in to the aching heat between their legs and their bellies and wraps his hand around Holden and provides him with the pleasure he’s been chasing for for so long, it comes natural to lean into it and give back, watch fascinated with heavy-lidded eyes as Bill’s dick, hard and straining and leaking, because of him, glides in his hand.

“Hey,” Bill whispers, panting. Holden turns his head up sharply, his lips getting caught by Bill’s in a bruising kiss. Closing his eyes, he enjoys the dual sensation of satisfaction, Bill all around him until the mounting pleasure burns like a hot ball in his loins.

He groans, “I’m close.” It might feel like Bill’s touch, his unleashed desire, is everywhere, is seeping into Holden’s pores, but he wants –

“I want you to come on me.”

“You sure?”

“Totally.”

Rearranging themselves takes little effort and the new position – Bill above him, their bodies slotted together – steals his breath away with the way skin rubs against skin. Light blue eyes intently watch him with an expression of pure passion before kissing him again, their hands picking up speed. Then Bill detaches himself from Holden’s lips, leaving them tingling, rises above him on his forearms and does as Holden wanted with fast staccato gasps, shaking through his orgasm while his eyes are locked onto Holden. The feeling of being claimed in such a primal way has Holden shaking with unbridled and unrestraint arousal, every muscle contracting with his own impending climax. Even though he wishes to do the same as Bill, to catch his eyes and show him what he’s doing to Holden through sheer telepathic will, the moment the waves crash over him is so intense and earth shattering that he has to close his eyes, while his mouth opens in quiet completion which turns to a drawn out moan, not unlike a wailing as he soils his quivering body even more.

He’s sure he must look like the picture of pure debauchery: hair a curly mess, skin shining with sweat, cooling cum on his stomach, kiss-bitten lips and on top of that, enjoying it. Eyes still closed in bliss, he’s only vaguely aware that the air moves as Bill settles next to him. His hand, not stained with Holden’s pleasure, starts rubbing soothing circles into his hip, tracing fingertips along the sensitive skin of his ribs, up along his arm and back down over his chest, down to the vulnerable inside of his thigh.

It takes a while for Holden to open his eyes again. Staring at the ceiling, a smile stretches along his face. Tired and content he puts one arm behind his head and turns to Bill. The same fulfilled expression is mirrored on his face.

“Bathroom?” Bill asks him, never stopping his gentle ministrations.

“Just a few more minutes.”

Although the afterglow is accompanied by pure relaxation, a nagging fear knocks at the door of his sated desires.

“Bill, do you want me to leave? Later?”

His answer are kisses pressed against his shoulder and a decisive, “No. Stay.”

“Then I’d like to have that shower now,” he says, ready to move on, to fall asleep next to Bill and sleep for the next 24 hours. He was on the other side of the country this morning after all.

In the morning Bill isn’t curled around him anymore. His broad back is facing Holden. Unable to stop himself, his fingers move against bare skin, over a shoulder blade and down his spine and back up his side until Bill fully wakes and turns around.

He mumbles a quiet, “Morning” and rolls over to press a kiss against Holden’s lips before moving to stand up. Bill’s still naked and watching him get out of bed and walk towards the bathroom without bothering to put on some clothes, stirs feelings of slight arousal in his core, fueled by his morning wood.

Smiling, Holden positions himself, what he hopes is, lasciviously on his side, bracing his head in his hand, uncovering the top half of his body and letting the blanket pool around his groin to wait for Bill’s return.

The picture of wantonness seems to fail. 

As he comes back, Bill starts to dress, asking, “Breakfast?” 

He’s miffed that Bill doesn’t come back to bed, doesn’t accept his invitation, but answers in the affirmative anyway, the ache in his stomach not purely budding need after all. Bill leaves. And after a while – Holden’s lying on his belly, his eyes closed, enjoying the morning, the positive aftermath of their time together – the bed dips and Bill reappears. Feeling playful, he keeps his eyes closed and waits for Bill to speak. He just doesn’t expect what actually comes out of his mouth.

“It’s been forever since I made love to someone.”

One eye slides open, peeking at Bill.

“Really?” 

“Really. I think the last time I had sex with Nancy was long before we adopted Brian.”

Those gentle caressing motions across Holden’s body are back, appreciative in their journey across his skin. One hand dips beneath the sheets to fondle his backside. Without disturbing them, Holden settles on his forearms and regards Bill, a little bit with pity and a lot with adoration. 

“Fuck - you’re sexy, you know that?”

Holden’s eyebrows shoot up. Confronted with such rare honesty, he doesn’t know what to say. In lieu of his speechlessness he smiles and nuzzles against Bill’s face, rubbing his nose along his cheek, followed by his lips, and kissing down to his jaw, underneath his ear to his sensitive neck.

“I -,” Holden feels the vibration of his words against his lips and how he swallows nervously in preparation of his next words, “I’m not attracted to women.” The confession is strange considering Bill’s life and yet makes strangely sense.

“How did you fuck Nancy if you didn’t enjoy it?” His words are emphasized by a little bite into Bill’s shoulder.

“Focused on the feeling of getting off instead of her.”

The admission has Holden reeling back and looking at Bill’s guilty face.

“That’s cruel.”

“I know. I didn’t know what else to do. Later in our marriage it became unimportant.”

“When’s the last time you had sex with a man?”

Bill’s signature smile steals onto his face, “Last night.” Holden rolls his eyes, laughing, nonetheless. He should’ve anticipated that answer.

“Tell me.”

Bill shrugs.

“Before I joined the military. When I came back, I just wanted some normalcy so wanting to suck cock was out of the question. I finished my studies, looked for a job, a steady income, you know, something to keep me grounded. It was actually Nancy that came on to me and I – went with the flow of things.”

Holden kisses him – to say thanks for being honest and opening up, for not being afraid of this fragile intimacy, and to give him what Bill obviously wants so very much. And Bill reciprocates beautifully, his arms winding around Holden to hold him close, sharing the taste of coffee and cigarettes.

His heart is pounding in his ears, arousal and love rushing through his veins and he needs to say it, needs Bill to know. No matter his reaction.

He disconnects their lips, stays close, their noses touching.

“Bill –”

“Holden I –”

“Yeah, me too,” Holden laughs, chest tight with happiness. 

They close their eyes, meeting again, lips against lips softy. Until Holden’s stomach rumbles, interrupting the slow arousal building between them.

“Come on, breakfast’s ready.”

… _And_

Alaskan coldness. Plane ride after plane ride. Mouths parted by hundreds and thousands of miles, voices connected through static crackling and sheer stubbornness to make it work. To not let this turn into another Nancy and Debbie. 

“How are you?”

“I miss you.”

“Yeah, me too. You sound exhausted.”

“That’s because I am,” a pause, “I just want to be home for one whole weekend. With you.”

“I’ve been telling you to cut back. You won’t be able to sustain the pace you’re working at. It’ll kill you.”

“I already talked to Ted about needing help. He wants the rest of the department as Instructors. So what else do you want me to do? Who else is going to work these cases if not me? Fucking no one that’s who and if that happens then all of it –”

“Holden, calm down. Breathe. I know, I just,” a sigh, “I wish you’d take more care of yourself. I can only do so much, you know?”

“I know. I’m sorry, Bill. God – I really miss you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

…

And then there’s pain.

A familiar voice calling out to him.

More pain.

Nothingness. 

*

The pain is back. More subdued and in different places. He nearly coughs as he tries to take a deep breath and realizes that something is lodged in his throat (and he’s pretty sure it’s not a dick), something uncomfortable is pressing heavily against the sensitive skin of the crook of his arm and something else is pressing the fingers of his left hand together. He wants to open his eyes as his mind slowly swims back to consciousness, but his lids are heavy and like a siren song sleep is calling out to him. But someone else is calling him too and with great difficulty he eventually opens his eyes, closes them, opens them, blinking against the brightness until he can keep them open. At first he doesn’t know where he is and panics. Not the kind of panic that feels like a heart attack, no, like the pain it’s more subdued - spongy. It takes a while for him to notice his surroundings, the fact that he’s in a hospital and that Bill is right beside him.

There’s a tube in his mouth, needles in his arm and Bill squeezing his hand. Unable to speak he squeezes back, aware of how weak it is. But Bill doesn’t seem to care.

A hushed, “Thank God,” leaves him and like a believer in front of his god he bows his head, his forehead resting on their intertwined fingers.

“ _Thank God_ ,” he whispers again, his shoulders shaking in silent sobs, his tears wetting Holden’s hand. Still too weak and confused as to what has occurred, Holden is unable to spend comfort, subjected to watching his partner weep over his limp body as if he were dead. Maybe he was. He certainly feels like it.

For a long while Bill doesn’t move.

Only when a nurse enters does he compose himself, letting off and go of Holden as the woman’s eyes grow big and a smile spreads across her face.

“Welcome Back, Mr. Ford. Let me help you with that,” she says and points at the tube, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He nods.

As she gently removes the tube and does her routine check-up, words that don’t make any sense come spilling out of her mouth.

“You were really lucky, you know? You must have a guardian angel watching over you and I’m not talking about Mr. Tench over there. Honestly, I can only hope that if something like this were to happen to me, I had a friend like that.” She winks at him and stops talking as she takes his pulse.

“Considering your condition, you’re good. Let me get the doctor.”

Holden nods again, afraid to aggravate his aching throat even more. 

Bit by bit the gaps in his memory are filled – by the doctor telling him that he suffered from viral encephalitis due to stress: that his whole left side, from head to toe, had shut down, that his brain had basically been cooked inside his skull, that nobody had expected him to live or at the very least be mentally impaired if he were ever to wake up – by Bill telling him that Holden had managed to call him from his hotel room in the early hours of the morning but hadn’t said anything, that there had been heavy breathing and Holden croaking Bill’s name, that he had rushed back from the precinct, calling an ambulance meanwhile, to find Holden unconscious and seizing on the ground, that Holden had complained of feeling unwell the day prior and had stayed at the hotel to get better, that they were currently in Seattle creating a profile for the Green River Killer.

Holden remembers none of it. He fights with his own mind to find out what the last thing he remembers is, but his memories are muddled and unorganized and when he opens his mouth to speak, so is his speech. Suddenly he realizes that he can’t feel the left side of his face, can’t move it. Panicked, angry huffs leave his mouth due to the sheer effort of operating it. 

As Bill and the doctor tell him to take it easy, tears of frustration spring to his eyes. Holden doesn’t stop them as he falls back against the pillows and realizes another thing: his legs are numb as well.

During the next few days Wendy and Ted call, police officers and agents come and go – all of them wishing him well – until days turn to weeks and no one but Bill remains. The times he leaves, reluctantly at that, is to get food, relieve himself, take a shower, talk to Brian or get stuff they need like a change of clothes, a new book. Bill talks and talks, holds his hand when no one is watching, kissing his forehead, every act done with patience and love, underlined with relief – a stark contrast to his initial approach to Holden’s anxiety disorder and a reminder of how much has changed. And Holden wishes he could feel the same way, too, but instead every piece of information that he’s unable to recall, every act of kindness, makes him angrier, more frustrated, weepy. Coupled with the agony of relearning to move his own fucking body, he turns even more obnoxious as usual and wonders how Bill manages to stand his company. He’s alive but at what prize? His body and mind are failing him. What good of an agent, a lover, is he like this? 

One evening, after a long day of rehab, all his pent-up negativity sputters out of him like a burst balloon and before he knows it, he’s attacking the person he spent so long chasing only to push them away.

He’s sitting at the edge of his bed, hands clawed into the metal frame, watching Bill approach to be at his side in every sense. His speech is still somewhat slurred and jerky, taking away some of the bitterness from his bitter words, “Why are you here anyway? Why is the Bureau allowing this? Shouldn’t you be out there trying to catch the – the – oh fuck it, you know who I mean! Why do you care for a cripple, Bill? Don’t look at me like that! I don’t want your pity or your help. Just go. Go, I said!”

Bill takes the verbal beating stoically with watery eyes and balled fists, his mouth a thin line.

His words are calm and collected, hurt shining through, “I’ll go. Until you’ve calmed down, you giant prick. As to answer your questions: The Bureau is allowing this because there is no one else who wants to watch out for your self-pitying ass. And I’m still here because I nearly fucking lost you. I had to arrange your _fucking funeral,_ Holden. I’m not leaving, deal with it.”

As he marches out the door, his shaking hands fiddle for a cigarette and his lighter, cursing the damn thing when it doesn’t light up.

For what feels like the millionth time the past few weeks, Holden cries – this time out of anger at himself for ignoring how Bill might feel about this situation, angry about his own ungratefulness, angry at the FBI for being the culprit for his sorry state – unable to keep the flow of tears at bay since the dam broke, the floodgates opened. He never felt this fragile and vulnerable before - as if he was skinned alive. Everything hurts. He lies down, burying his face in his pillow, letting the coarse material soak up his tears, the snot, uncaring how disgusting it is. Bill finds him like this when he returns, looking just as bad as Holden. Despite their argument, despite his own distress, he searches for Holden’s hand, kisses his knuckles and rubs this thumb over the back of his hand, whispering that everything will be alright while his other hand starts stroking over Holden’s head to soothe him until he falls asleep.

He tries to be more amendable during the rest of rehab, gritting his teeth through the days of painful recovery when they push him to walk, holding onto the crutches left and right of him; and talk, first complicated words and then whole phrases, equally as complicated. Frustration and impatience become his main emotions simply because the walking and talking shouldn’t be as hard or as complicated as it is for his maltreated body. Blessed are the doctors and nurses for their kind words, their patience when he curses like a sailor (from a warbled mess to coherent words) at his legs that don’t work like he wants them to, when his face cramps so badly that he stops speaking in the middle of a sentence and is brought close to tears by the interruption or when he forgets their names even though they’ve been working with him for weeks now. He apologizes profoundly every time, cheeks heating in shame and frustration.

Some days he’s glad he still remembers Bill.

That’s the other thing that makes him queasy. He’s pretty sure all the nurses know what’s going on between Bill and him. They give him secret smiles when they talk about his _special friend_ and ask him questions such as _How long have you known each other? Do you like working together? He’s very handsome, isn’t he?_ To their credit it isn’t very hard to figure out with the way Bill likes to hold his hand at every opportunity or reads books and old interviews to him in the evenings until Holden falls asleep to the low cadence of his voice. As the day of his release rolls around, he’s convinced that _everyone_ in the ward knows. Simply due to the fact that they were walked in on as they were kissing, chastely in his defense, and had to spring apart as if burned. Nobody outright says anything. Probably because this kind of thing was decriminalized in Washington years ago. But the lingering unease he experiences accentuates every interaction with the staff.

In the time it takes him to get better, he’s also, nevertheless, starting to feel grateful to them for saving his life and helping him with the first steps towards recovery and instructs Bill to let plaques be made for every staff member that helped him on his journey. And for keeping their mouths mostly shut about his and Bill’s relationship. It is a small glimmer of hope when he presents the personalized memorial plaques without stuttering or stopping, sounding almost like his old self on a chilly Thursday morning, receiving applause and even some hugs.

He’s looking forward to the day of his release, happy as it arrives, although still not fully back to his old strength he has to be rolled out of the hospital in a wheelchair by Bill. He’s back home right in time for Christmas. As Holden’s release drew nearer, the doctors advised that it would be best for him to be with someone that could take care of him until he was fully recovered and since Bill was the only person volunteering, the only person Holden allowed to coddle him, the responsibility fell on him. It isn’t uncommon for single agents to live together and maybe it was the next logical step in their relationship. The reason for it, though, was unfortunate.

So back in Virginia they make a short stop at Holden’s impersonal and dusty apartment to get everything he’d need for an extended stay at Bill’s house and finally arrive back home. Secretly, he’s glad to not return to his own home just to be alone or be forced to stay inside the confinement of his apartment, where he’s likely to develop cabin fever. 

It’s cold. Snow is fluttering from the sky in thick drops, coating the world in a blanket of white. Bill parks the car and kills the engine and as the engine cools down with a crackle, Holden remembers Alaska.

“Did you arrest the guy in Alaska? Hansen?”

He turns to Bill and seeing the mix of fondness and exasperation on his face, he adds, embarrassed, “I’ve asked this before, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Yeah, they did, thanks to you. C’mon, it’s freezing out here.”

Holden nods and Bill wheels him inside the welcoming warmth, the comforting sight, of Bill’s home. 

*

Christmas is celebrated without any decorations, any Christmassy food or any of the joyous, stressful feelings usually associated with the holiday and without any gift exchanging. Without the support of a close circle of friends or trusted ones and because his father is dead, his mother estranged, Holden is used to spending Christmas alone and without presents; which doesn’t make him cry about the fact, but an intrinsic desire in him to gift Bill with something for being a pillar of support and being unable to do so does. They’re having dinner the night before Christmas and as so often in the past weeks, tears well up in his eyes with him unable to stop them. Concerned Bill asks him what the matter is and through the thicket of emotions balling and weighting on his chest he confesses, only for Bill to look at him with unhidden love before kissing his temple and whispering into his ear that Holden being alive was enough of a Christmas miracle as it was and that he didn’t need anything else.

Despite Bill’s continuing aid, simmering apprehension has his stomach in knots, his chest aching in uncountable intervals, unease spreading in his heart. Because his weak state means he’s dependent on Bill if his legs decide to give out underneath him once more. 

On Christmas Eve they’re huddled together on the sofa; after an uneventful day, an uneventful evening. 

“This is weird,” Holden mumbles, wrapped in Bill’s arms, staring at the TV screen on which the 1951 version of Dicken’s Christmas Carol is playing and where the ghost of Christmas Present shows Scrooge Cratchit’s family feast in grainy black and white.

“What is?” Bill asks and holds him tighter.

“It’s Christmas. Shouldn’t you be with Nancy and Brian?”

Bill cranes his neck to plant a kiss against Holden’s cheek, gentle and reassuring.

“As I understand it, you’re supposed to be with your family. It’s exactly what I’m doing. I told Nancy about the situation and she was very understanding, unnaturally so. I think she was glad that I couldn’t be with them. It gave her an excuse to take Brian and drive up to her family in Vermount.”

Warmed by the words, Holden leans back against Bill, allowing the feeling of safety emanating from his sturdy frame, the reassuring cage of his crossed arms around Holden’s middle, to take hold, hoping that some of that resolute conviction in his steadfast voice will take root in him, too. 

On a moonless night a few days after Christmas and in between that strange phase between the old and the new year, his premonition of dread is realized in the form of nightmares materializing from the wild thoughts running in several violent directions in his head. Sweat soaked and shaking he wakes up, unlocking his jaw from its tight, teeth grinding position and breathes deeply through his nose. Inside his rib cage, his heart is racing. Bill’s arm is loosely draped over his chest and only hinders a return to steadiness. Holden wiggles, careful not to wake the other man.

Bill stirs. “Holden?”

Holden closes his eyes, hoping that Bill will go back to sleep immediately. But no. The arm around him rolls him onto his side, pressing his face against Bill’s broad chest.

“What is it?” he asks, sounding completely alert, ripped from his own slumbering state.

Tangling his legs with Bill’s underneath the shared heat of their blanket, the pinkie of the hand lying between them softly seeking and caressing an uncovered patch of skin, he takes another deep breath to ground himself in the moment, pushing the horror of the dream to the side lines of his consciousness.

“Nightmare. I – I dreamt I was tortured by them.”

A warm, big palm strokes along his sweaty back in soothing motions, wordlessly giving him comfort and shelter.

“Nothing’ll happen to you as long as I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

“Okay,” Holden whispers, trying to reign in his racing mind, listening to Bill’s steady heart beat, unaware that Bill is watching him closely and waiting until he’s truly asleep to close his eyes as well.

The problem is that Bill might shield him with his body, but he can’t shield Holden from his own mind and imagination. He doesn’t know what time it is or how long he slept when next he wakes up. Disoriented and scared shitless, he stumbles from Bill’s embrace who doesn’t move a muscle, and into the bathroom without turning on the light. It feels like he’s experiencing a panic attack and his first instinct is to get the Valium he knows is in one of the cabinets because it has migrated there after countless nights having spent in Bill’s house and bed but ultimately refrains from doing so. Mostly because he’s shaking so hard he doesn’t know is if he’s able to stand up again; mostly because the nightmarish imagines of being abducted to a house in the middle of nice suburban neighborhood to be raped by one of the mad fucks he’s sworn to catch, tied down and helpless, experiencing what these poor women have to endure, makes his stomach turn. Sitting on the closed toilet lid, his elbows are digging into his thighs as he supports his pounding head while fighting down the waves of nausea threatening to overflow. In a very literal sense.

After it takes him, for what feels like forever, to re-collect himself, he drags his sleep-deprived and exhausted, hurting body back into the bedroom by clinging onto the furniture and the wall. This time, Bill registers the movement happening around him and asks into the darkness of the room as Holden approaches the bed, “Another nightmare?”

Holden nods, forgetting that Bill probably doesn’t see it. While crawling into bed, he affirms his suspicion but doesn’t lie down, kneeling instead on the cold side of the bed he’s left behind as he rushed out.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he croaks, “I feel like I’m losing my mind, Bill. First the memory loss, now the nightmares. I don’t care about my legs, I can live with the fact that I might not be able to shoot a gun ever again or breathe probably because there’s fucking blood in my lungs but my mind –” he stops, angry that once again he’s tearing up, “What am I without my mind? What if, one day, I wake up and can’t remember who you are? What if I had woken up in that damn hospital bed, looked at you and wondered who the fuck you are?”

As Holden rambles, Bill is sitting up, saying, “Holden, hey, hey, hey, come here.” His arms wrap around Holden’s shivering frame, pulling him down and on top of Bill, pillowing his head against his chest, right above his heart, so that Holden can smell the lingering soap on his neck, lips brushing sensitive skin.

Softly Bill’s hand cradles his face, thumb rubbing over his cheek. “These nightmares is your head working through the trauma and you know it. You analyze behavior for a living; use those smart skills on yourself and think. And be kinder to yourself, Holden. Your brain was practically fried. Of course there are gaps in your memory but you remembered me, didn’t you?” Holden nods, rubbing his cheek against Bill. “And let me tell you one thing: If you truly had forgotten me, I’d make you remember me. Do you understand? I’d even make you fall in love with me again if I had to. You –,” His lips brush against Holden’s forehead. “At the risk of sounding mushy: It took me a while to realize but – I believe you were made for me. I’m not giving up on you and neither should you.” 

Overwhelmed, Holden starts crying, nodding frantically and burying his face in familiar warmth. He promises himself to take Bill’s words seriously, to think about it, to take better care of himself. But not tonight. He’s bone-tired and Bill is so very warm and comfy. Tomorrow is still another day. For tonight he slips back into much needed sleep. Dreaming about absolute nothingness this time. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the comments & kudos! <3

He’s so fucking sick of crying.

*

New Year approaches in hasty steps. It feels surreal. The days drag on in a strange mixture of gum-stretching-slow and stumbling-over-your-feet fast. Like Christmas, New Year’s Eve doesn’t register in his mind as a holiday until it’s there and Wendy rings the bell. Bill had told him that he’d invited her over and although he’s happy to see her after such a long time, some part of him dreads it. He doesn’t want her to see him like this – weak and weepy. She knows about the rest. They’d joked about it only a few months ago. Three “sexually disturbed” individuals establishing a new practice of investigating deviant behavior at the FBI and even going public with it. God, it feels like forever ago. Maybe it was. He still has trouble with sorting through his memories after all.

Bill is the one to open the door, and from Holden’s field of view in the kitchen, where he is setting the table, he can see Bill kissing her cheeks and complimenting her outfit. Holden breathes through his nose. Seeing her now, he’s more glad than afraid.

She’s following Bill back to the kitchen, high heels announcing her approach, and seeing Holden promptly sets down the champagne on the nearest surface to rush over and hug him in a rare show of raw emotions. He can’t help but cling to her petite frame and smell her perfume, Chanel No.5, and kiss her cheek as well.

“It’s good to see you, Holden,” she murmurs, slowly disentangling herself from him.

Her appearance triggers a row of thoughts entering his mind, ones he hadn’t considered while being preoccupied with misery and recovery. Who is taking care of his open cases? What about the study? And will he ever be able to go back to work?

He keeps his mouth shut, though. It’s the New Year. Wendy is here to celebrate with them, to get tipsy and enjoy the night in good company. It shouldn’t start with Holden’s fear of an uncertain future.

“Sit down, both of you, I’ll finish the rest,” Bill says and walks over to the fridge to pour Wendy a glass of chilled Chardonnay.

As they’re sitting down, Wendy regards Holden with a warm gaze and a smile, “We missed you at the Christmas party.”

“I’m not good company at the moment, I’m afraid. Bill can attest to that.”

Wendy’s expressions sobers, “How are you?”

“Honestly – I don’t know. I can walk on my own and talk, as you can hear, but it’s difficult. And I-” Holden stops, suddenly self-conscious talking about the worst of his problems. Wendy only takes a sip of her wine and waits for him to continue.

“I’m struggling to remember events, dates. Even the way to my own apartment. The other day Bill and I drove over to get some more of my stuff and I had no idea how to get there. I didn’t even recognize the building once we arrived.” Holden draws a deep breath, letting his gaze wander to the hallway, and beyond, to the office where case files and half-written chapters of their book on sexual homicide are stacked on Bill’s desk.

Looking at Wendy he continues, “I’m reading old cases and interviews to fill the gaps and remember what I’ve been doing these past years. Some of it is – feels like a Deja-vu, like I’m discovering it again. Other things are totally unfamiliar.” A self-deprecating smile enters his face. “It’s disconcerting.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard. From what I heard and seeing right now, you’re doing great. Your head needs time to recover, not only your body. You were under tremendous stress. I’m surprised it took your body this long to put a stop to this lifestyle, to say it nicely. Take it as the warning it was and take your time to get healthy. Everyone at the BSU is very supportive of your situation.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him. Bon appétit,” Bill interjects as he starts serving dinner, tenderly brushing a hand over the back of Holden’s head as he sits down with his own beer.

Holden only huffs, remembering very clearly how he begged for additional help shortly before his breakdown, “Not everyone.” Fed up with discussing his troubles, he starts heaping salad onto his plate, digging into the perfectly cooked salmon, seasoned with herbs and drizzled with lemon juice, garnished with baked potatoes.

“How are you, Wendy?”

She sees it as the distraction it is and mercifully starts talking about herself; her recent attempts at dating, showing annoyance at the fact that she finds it unbearably difficult. It’s where the conversation stays for a while, before it naturally drifts back to work, her thoughts about conducting some new interviews, not necessarily with convicted serial killers but single offenders and some thoughts on the book - _their_ book.

A few seconds before the clocks strikes midnight, they open the champagne and resettle outside to watch the fireworks. Still a bit wobbly on his feet, Holden leans against Bill, watching the bright colors explode in the sky, chinking their glasses and wishing each other a Happy New Year. Tipsy and bold, Bill even presses a chaste kiss on his lips and another one against his temple, hugging Holden tighter to his side.

He tries to feel as carefree as his two friends do, to shake off the past year which clings to him like sticky tar. But as he watches smoke obscuring the sky, this is what he compares himself to – untethered and airy, drifting without purpose. Another rocket buzzes into the air and fills the sky in a spectacle of booming blue for a few beautiful seconds before it dies and disappears into a cloud of grey.

*

He’s alone at home. It’s the middle of January, he has given the landlord his notice to quit his apartment and now he’s alone at Bill’s house which is slowly being filled with his life. A day after New Year’s, after Wendy left, he asked who’s taking care of his open cases, hoping that someone actually does. Bill had blinked, opened his mouth a few times like a fish out of water.

“Jim, Greg, Tom, Steve,” he disclosed, pausing and regarding Holden with a strangely sympathetic expression, “Me. Mostly Jim and me.”

“Ah,” was all he could say, stilted and angry. The _Oh, now that I’m out of commission there are capacities for you to work cases instead of teaching_ , is left unsaid. And then Bill’s expression and its reason dawned on him: Bill wouldn’t be able to take care of him for much longer. He needed to work Holden’s cases. 

So Bill is gone, working a profile at Quantico and Holden is left alone with his broken body and his swiss-cheese mind and he’s putting away his stuff, transferring his life from boxes to insert it into Bill’s and he’s looking at copies of notes from the Green River Killer, the BTK case, so many others – must be thirty –, an article he and Wendy had written for the American Journal of Psychiatry, an article on the Atlanta murders and sudden, boundless rage fills him. He poured his heart and soul into this, to bring justice to the families and victims, to catch as many as he could, he nearly lost his life because he worked relentlessly and single-mindedly.

Standing in the middle of the living room, he realizes, maybe for the first time, that he nearly gave his life to the FBI. And what did he get? A letter of censure for his misconduct at the Atlanta case, the FBI’s unknowing hate and bigotry for loving another man. A man who had lost his wife and child to the FBI and who had found solace in Holden. And what did Holden do? Coming _this_ close to dying and leaving him all alone.

_I had to arrange your fucking funeral, Holden._

Like a wrathful spirit, Holden throws the documents back into the box they came from, stomping into the office and sacking those documents, too. In the end the box is too heavy to carry so he drags it across the floor to the sliding glass doors, barring his way to the cold winter outside. The snow has stopped falling, but the sky is still a bedraggled grey. Angry and out of breath, he’s huffing and puffing as he gets the big round metal garbage can from the shed and turns it sideways to empty the old brown leaves onto the grass. He ignores the cold biting through his thick woolen socks and tightly knit sweater.

The documents from the box meet their dark end at the bottom of the trash can as Holden takes and takes and takes and throws them away, careless how they land. When the box is empty, he turns towards the house, stalking back inside to get matches. Good thing Bill smokes. There are always matches and firelights to be found in some kitchen drawer. He contemplates getting some alcohol but doesn’t. Bill would get mad if he were to find out that Holden used his expensive Jameson to burn his rage away.

As it turns out, he didn’t need the alcohol. He fumbles with the matches, curses violently when it takes him a few tries to get them burning. The wind is too strong, blowing them out before they can hit the papers. Soon enough, though, they catch fire and first flames then smoke emits from the barrel. Now that the ugly reminder of his mortality is burning, the strength leaves him. But he can’t move. Like a pillar, he’s rooted to the ground, watching his life’s achievement going up in flames. He’s sure the orange flicker must be reflected in his eyes in a grotesque show of madness. He stands and watches and smells the smoke and feels the heat and hopes that it functions as a baptism of fire, cleansing him from past mistakes and failures.

Bill finds him like this. Holden can hear the door opening and closing and Bill shouting, “Hello?” It doesn’t take him long to find the other man and when he does, he can sense Bill approaching him like a ranger would a wild animal.

“What are you doing?” he asks carefully, standing next to Holden and scrutinizing him.

“I had to burn it.”

“Burn what? Holden – what did you do?”

“Everything. The articles, the interviews, the cases, the god damn pictures.”

Coming out of his stupor, he turns to Bill with balled fists, nails digging into his flesh.

“I can’t remember how I ended up in that hospital, but I know the why and it doesn’t take a special agent to figure out the who. The FBI can go fuck itself,” his voice wavers as he takes in the miserable lines around Bill’s mouth and his eyes. His hands relax and one of them extends to lie flatly over Bill’s strongly beating heart. “I almost left you. Forever. You wanted me to take care of myself. I’m taking care of myself.” Wordlessly, Holden opens his arms and has Bill clinging to him immediately.

Watching the flames burning down to a smoldering pile of ashes, he says, “It’s not worth it.”

To make sure that nothing can potentially catch fire, they douse the flames and go inside. They spend the rest of the evening filling the house with Holden’s sparce personal belongings. The last order of the day, before they settle down to have dinner and watch TV, is to put up a picture right beside it. It’s not overly romantic, not one of those where one is kissing the other while the picture is taken or any of that. The picture is them, side by side, arms thrown over shoulders, color high on their cheeks, beaming at the person behind the camera. It was taken at the BSU’s last Christmas party. It stands next to a picture of Nancy, Brian and Bill, all three of them looking equally as happy.

That night, for the first time in months, Holden feels not only a slight sliver of peace but also confident enough to initiate anything close to sexual intimacy. It’s no solution, no magic formula for his maddingly slow healing body, but it’s a start. Holden, quite literally, can’t remember the last time he and Bill had sex and from the way Bill devours his mouth as the kisses get heated, it must be a while. Despite the urgency, he’s so gentle and caring and careful that Holden is close to screaming at him to stop it before he drives them both crazy with the slow pace. But then he realizes, between Bill’s worshipping hands all over him and the wet heat of his mouth that he needs this tenderness. It’s just not for Holden’s sake. He decides, then, to give himself over to the infuriating slowness, to let Bill make love to him, to reassure himself that he can still have this.

*

He resumes therapy, physical and psychological. He talks to his doctor at the FBI about the first one and to Wendy about the second. With pure professionalism she gives her recommendations, dictating numbers. Sitting by the telephone and undecisive on who to call, Holden does the only reasonable thing: he calls all of them and makes appointments. Over the course of the next week a taxi takes him to each and every one. In the end he decides for a middle-aged woman with short white hair, whose glasses compared to her entire outfit are decidedly en vogue and who reminds him of Wendy with her cool, detached demeanor. It’s exactly what he needs when he starts talking about dead girls, his illness, the hopelessness that comes and goes in waves, his very illegal male lover or the fact that he was close to dying. While Holden sits in the comfortable wing chair opposite from her and pours his heart out, cries more than can be healthy, she listens with a mask of indifference and only talks once he’s finished to grant him valuable insides. He feels strange being on the opposing end of an interrogation, being analyzed and picked apart. On the other hand is he unable to deny that it helps. 

One morning over breakfast, Bill tells him how proud he is, how relieved. He never said it, barely showed it, but Holden knew that despite him being happy that Holden had survived, the situation had been hard on him too. Although Bill had become more transparent with his feelings, he still had the habit of keeping his worries and emotions close to his heart, working through them by himself instead of sharing. If not for himself, then at least for Bill, it had been important that he got his shit together.

As the days and weeks pass with him slowly but surely working to get better, the question of his uncertain future looms like a Damocles sword hanging above him. He’s still furious at the FBI, but the more he thinks of alternative career paths, the more he remembers how much he loved it, how good he was at it. And once again –

_I had to arrange your fucking funeral, Holden._

“Bill?”

“Hm?” The older man puts a finger between the pages of the book he’s reading, looking at Holden over the rim of his glasses, lamp light illuminating him as if a halo shines around his head.

“Did you have a grave picked?” Holden murmurs, eyes trained on Bill and the way color seems to drain from his face.

“Why are we talking about this?”

“I just want to know. I’ve been thinking. - - Did you?”

“If you _must_ know: Yes. At Oak Hill Cemetery here in Fredericksburg.”

“Take me there.”

Bill takes a deep breath.

“Why?”

“I want to see it.”

“Can you not –,” exasperated he presses two fingers against his tear ducts.

“Bill, please. I need to see it.”

The clock on his nightstand ticks, ticks, ticks.

“Fine.” 

“Thank you.”

“Hmm.”

Hurt and annoyed Bill goes back to reading, mouth pursed in a tight angry line. It’s not often Holden feels ashamed, but he does now. He didn’t mean to cause pain. Sheepishly he extends his hand towards Bill’s leg and brushes his fingertips against an exposed thigh. Without looking up, Bill wraps his hand around Holden’s and guides it to his mouth, kissing the knuckles and lying it back down in his lap where his thumb starts drawing circles.

“I’ll come home early.”

Holden nods and closes his eyes. 

The ride to the cemetery is deadly silent but that’s alright. He wouldn’t know what to say anyway or how to placate Bill. So he watches the world passing by, the continually grey sky, as they creep towards their destination. As Bill drives them closer to this place of death and mourning, his chest tightens. He fumbles for a Valium. Just to be sure. Bill merely watches from the corner of his eyes, taking the turn into Huntington Hills Lane.

Not much later, as the sign ‘Oak Hill Cemetery’ appears, he turns into the entrance lane, slowly approaching the parking space and finally turning off the engine. Now, without the motor running, the silence between them is oppressive, like fog settling over the car and in his lungs. The rows and rows of polished headstones, standing straight and even, appear before him in the distance.

Nodding into the direction of the huge metal gates, Bill exists the car. He’s already lit a cigarette, holding his lighter close to his mouth, one hand curled around it to keep the flame from expiring. Maybe hoping for some warmth. Pocketing the lighter again and subsequently his hands, he starts walking. Holden follows; trailing behind Bill like an obedient, kicked puppy. They walk the straight, well-kempt (despite the winter) path until Bill stops and leads him to a corner of the cemetery where there is still space. 

“You would’ve been buried here,” he rouses, fingers around his cigarette as he pulls it from his mouth and puts it back in again to take a long drag.

Holden is silent. He can’t say it’s a beautiful spot. It’s – empty. Impersonal. For a lack of better words. He imagined it differently. Reality is harsh and unpleasant.

Standing in front of all these crosses and headstones, the dead slumbering underneath, he turns to Bill. He’s smoking quietly, staring into the middle distance, as if dissociating and avoiding the implications of this place. Always trying to be the strong one.

“Would you have mourned me?” Holden asks as he turns around.

Bill takes one last drag, faces Holden with an incredulous grimace.

“What kind of question is that? Of course.”

“Terribly or the normal amount?”

“I think you know the answer,” he presses through clenched teeth.

Always trying to be the strong one. 

Ignoring the publicity of the place and that they could be seen, Holden wraps his arms around Bill and feels him hugging back. They both press against each other, seeking comfort from the gesture and the other’s presence.

Bill releases a long, deep breath, one Holden assumes he’s been holding since the day Holden fell into a coma.

“Don’t ever do this to me again,” he whispers against the crown of curly windswept hair.

Against Bill’s cheek he apologizes, “Not planning to.”

After a little eternity, they unfurl from the embrace and once again indifferent to a possible audience, Bill slips his hand between Holden’s, tangling their fingers and walking back to the car. They’re two figures in long black coats walking away from the place of heartbreak and sadness.

Back in the car, Bill’s hand never leaves his. He even forgoes smoking to make sure they stay connected all the way home. The radio is turned off, and the both of them don’t feel the need to talk. Tires cut through fallen dirty snow, sloshing against the metal and the sidewalks. Few people are outside. The ones that are, are bundled in thick winter coats, hurrying along with their groceries in one hand, some of them holding the hands of their children or loved ones in the other.

In mid-February the sun is setting fast and while Bill stirs the car into the direction of their home in the suburbs of Fredericksburg, streetlamps turn on, dispelling the approaching darkness; leading them home.

The house emerges before them, dark but not dangerous and Bill parks. Reluctantly Holden extracts his hand and opens the car door to make for the front door of the house. The cold, compared to the warm interior of the car, hits him like a sledgehammer to his exposed face and jeans-clad legs. Promptly he starts shivering, catching Bill’s attention as he curls into himself in an attempt to stave the cold off on the short walk to the door. Bill – attuned to Holden’s every move and his well-being ever since the accident – sees not only how the cold affects him, but also the visit, and opens the door with the promise to prepare a bath.

While Bill disappears into the bowels of the house to do as promised, Holden, after hanging up his coat next to Bill’s and turning on the lights, shuffles into the kitchen and pours Bill a generous amount of the Tullamore that had been a birthday gift from him to Bill. 

They meet in the hallway, Bill coming to get Holden and Holden on his way to give Bill some liquid comfort. It has the desired effect. Bill grants him a small smile, saying, “Thank you” and continues his way into the kitchen, probably to prepare dinner. 

The bathroom smells pleasantly of pine and cedar and the water has the perfect temperature as Holden slips underneath with a sigh. Immediate comfort hits his system and his eyes fall shut without him consciously doing so. Every muscle in his body relaxes. As a result, he slips further under the water and has to bend his legs to accompany his body. He takes deep breaths, contracting and expanding his lungs and before he knows it, he’s half-asleep.

It’s no wonder really. Despite his best efforts at recovery, every day is still a battle. A battle against his own body and mind. Every morning he needs to encourage himself to get up and do his chores, visit his doctors, do anything at all. Every day feels like being stuck in the deepest morass, mentally and physically, and fighting to move move move, wading through the deep end to hopefully find firm ground eventually. Without Bill there to extend a helping hand sometimes, Holden doesn’t know what he’d do.

In his state between sleep and wakefulness, he becomes aware of Bill opening the door as quietly as possible and coming over to sit on the edge of the tub. Slowly he opens his eyes as Bill takes his hand and rubs circles over the back of it. They watch each other for a moment, taking in and stock of the person in front of them.

“Pervert. Coming in to sneak a peek at my nudity while I’m in a vulnerable state,” Holden jokes.

“Yep. That’s what I am. A dirty old man. Corrupting the innocent youth.”

His eyes sparkle in mirth. They both manage to stay serious for three seconds before they start to laugh.

With some effort Holden manages to sit up, water sloshing in the tub in the process, and lean against Bill, planting a slow indulgent kiss on his lips, savoring the taste of whiskey as Bill leans into him and opens his mouth in that gentle, sure way of his, until he stops and leaves Holden’s lips wet and tingling, arousal travelling south. 

Into the scarce space between them he confides, “I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Bill. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“You’re welcome,” Bill mumbles into the next kiss.

Only reluctantly Holden stops the steamier getting liplock to give himself a good rub, drain the water and heave himself upright. Bill stays seated and watches, eyes roaming over Holden’s body with hot intent, smirking at the other man’s half-hard dick.

“Like what you see?” Holden asks, raising an eyebrow.

Standing up to be eye-level, a strong hand touches his wet skin while Bill’s blown pupils find Holden’s, “You know I do.” Then he turns half-way, grabs a towel and wraps Holden in it to get him dry. It’s strangely sexy, being cared for in this specific way, knowing he’s being touched and yet isn’t with the fluffy barrier of the towel between them. Feeling bold and horny, Holden leans forward, arms around Bill’s neck.

“I’d like to show you my gratitude. Is there anything you want?” he whispers, “Make you feel good. Take care of you, too.”

Bill takes in a sharp breath, whispers his response, “As soon as you’re healthy again, we’ll come back to it. Until then,” he drops the towel to the floor and slings his arms behind Holden’s thighs to hoist him up. Automatically Holden’s legs wrap around his middle, another rush of arousal shooting through his body. He licks his lips. “Until then you won’t have to do anything. I live here, you know. I see how hard it is, still, for you to move around.”

Bill turns, with Holden securely clinging to him and starts moving towards the bedroom. Holden kisses the corner of his mouth, “You’re going to fuck me, Agent Tench?”

Bill chuckles, “That’s exactly what I’m going to do, Agent Ford.”

Holden stretches across their bed like spilled ink, already breathing heavily through his nose, acutely aware of the pounding between his legs and watches from lowered eye lids, Bill settling between them, kissing the inside of a bend knee, sucking on the delicate flesh on the inside of his thigh, sure to leave a bruise. Satisfied with the mark, he leaves another, shorter kiss and leans back to take Holden’s hips and manhandle him onto his front with a hushed, “Turn around. And up.”

Turned around with his legs spread and his knees digging into the soft bedding, Holden realizes what Bill’s intentions are and paws the sheets in happy anticipation.

“ _God_ , I love you so much.”

His heart jumps as Bill’s mouth descends in confident kisses along his spine with a chuckle, leaving behind a wet trail until it reaches his tail bone. A moan breaks free from Holden’s throat, his mouth opening against the cotton smelling of the combined scents of Bill and himself.

“Ah, fuck yes – Bill, don’t stop.”

Bill has no intention to; his hands stay firm yet gentle on Holden’s hips and his cheeks. His mouth crawls closer to its destination. Another moan, almost whorish in its intensity, fills the silence of their bedroom just as Bill’s tongue begins lapping at his hole with singular focus, sending sparks through his damaged nerves and proving that he can still feel.

The moist titillating ministrations have him relaxing into Bill’s mouth while at the same time tensing with soul-crushing passion. He can hear his own blood rushing through his veins like a storm brewing on an orgasmic horizon; his heart pumping with desperate speed, leaving his face hot (if seen by Bill blood-red) and his hard cock leaking pearly evidence of his arousal against his belly.

Holden pinches his eyes shut, ready to cum untouched and on Bill’s tongue alone. He’s so close. He turns his head, burying his face in familiar, comfortable smells, bows his back in one last push against Bill’s tongue and –

Bill stops. The storm is receding. For one last obscene second his hot breath ghosts across his sensitive, wet skin. Holden groans, not above himself to admit that he’s close to a sob at being denied. A loud kiss is pressed against his ass before Bill says, “Pass me the lube, sweetheart” supporting his demand with a fingertip grazing along Holden’s cleft, sending shivers up his spine.

Holden scrambles upwards, stretching to get the drawer of his nightstand open and searching for the familiar tube of Vaseline and throwing it over his shoulder before getting back in position eagerly. He doesn’t have to wait long for the well-known feeling of Bill’s Vaseline-coated fingers touching him, soft and gentle and mindful of any discomfort he might cause. But there’s none. Just the familiar feeling of Bill’s fingers inside of him, the familiar rush of desire, the throbbing sensation in his very core.

When he’s fully lax and panting hard, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth, Bill turns him back around. Not much time is wasted – he kisses Holden, tongue pushing its way against Holden’s, while applying a liberal amount of Vaseline to his own pulsing cock, and mirrors what his mouth is doing. Except that the moment he’s connected to Holden, he stops ravishing his mouth to hide a moan against Holden’s sweat-covered neck.

Holden slings his arms around Bill’s shoulders, closes his eyes and enjoys Bill’s mouth on his fluttering pulse, his dick filling him and moving with purpose.

“Harder, c’mon. I -ah- know you’re holding back.”

“Glutton,” Bill whispers against the sensitive shell of his ear but does as commanded.

Bill finds the perfect rhythm: his hips snap back, only to thrust into Holden with slightly more force, stroking against his prostate. He gasps as an arrow of pure heat pierces through him. The sound is enough to spur Bill on, to have him wrap a hand around Holden’s swollen member. Pleasure, like stormy electrified clouds, begins to gather in his belly. He holds on tighter to Bill, panting his name to indicate his impending climax.

Bill doesn’t stop, kissing every inch of skin he can reach, while maintaining a rhythm and bringing them closer to the edge. And then there’s a thunder in is heart, a bolt striking him, Bill stroking him through it and following close behind. As Bill carefully disentangles himself and cleans them both up and Holden lies there on the bed, regaining his breath and enjoying the tremors in his body, another tear rolls down his cheek and into the pillow below. Only this time it isn’t out of pain or frustration. It’s happiness. It’s because he’s alive. Because he’s with Bill.

*

Bill finds Holden sleeping on the soda. After a long day of telephone consultation and a conversation with a detective from Charlotte, North Carolina, his concentration had been shot. All he could think about, while talking to Detective Gerbeth, was that Holden – before the accident – would have been able to help better than Bill. His partner, in every sense, had always been able to understand the minds of killers in an uncanny way. Unable to focus any longer he took his things, the case file, and left for home.

There he finds the door to the patio open, a slight breeze waving in, bringing with it the sound of birds and laughing children. Smiling to himself he approaches the sleeping man, glancing at a copy of the Green River Killings – Bill’s – and puts the file in his hand upon it.

Holden wakes to fingers running through his hair, Bill calling his name. He opens his eyes. Finding his bearings, he looks up at Bill looking down at him, his fingers, smelling of nicotine, scratching along his scalp. Holden takes a moment to regain his voice and says, “What time is it?”

“5. Came home early because I was running in circles.”

“Oh. There’s some leftover lunch if you want.”

“Thanks.”

Holden watches him leave and walk towards the kitchen, hears cabinets opening and closing. Taking a deep breath, he readies himself to stand up and join Bill. Once in an upright position, he spots the new dossier on the table. The rational part of his brain tells him to let it be, to ignore it.

“Are you joining me? Or am I supposed to eat by myself?” Bill calls, accompanied by a chair scraping against the floor.

Holden curses himself under his breath, takes the case file and walks over to the table where Bill is happily munching the last of the chicken and rice.

“What’s this?” he inquires with a raised eyebrow.

Bill looks at him, a bit guilty, and swallows the bite he just took.

“The case that made me come home. I know you said you’re not sure if you wanna come back but I thought you might have an idea or, you know, a different angle that could help.”

Nodding, Holden sits on the chair opposite from Bill and opens the folder under Bill’s scrutiny. Silently he looks at the crime scene photos, the conducted interviews, evidence. It’s not a multiple murder. A pretty red-head - found dead in her apartment by police who had broken into her house after she had missed an appointment with friends. Her body was in the bathtub, her wrists slit. The door showed signs of forced entry. Friends’ statements confirmed that Ava Campbell did not suffer from any kind of mental illness or had ever shown signs of it nor of changed behavior. Quite the opposite: she was a dedicated student, who took her studies seriously while working as a barista at a local coffee shop. The autopsy report stated no sexual abuse, but the medical examiner expressed doubt that the victim killed herself. Bruises underneath the cuts, in addition to the even deepness and angle on both wrists, raised suspicion. There wasn’t much to go on, but enough to label it homicide and reason for investigation.

Holden realizes that he’s already painting a picture of this guy. Slipping back into his FBI mindset feels like riding a bike.

“I guess you already profiled the most obvious facts,” he says, looking at Bill.

Unbeknownst to him, Bill had finished his food and slipped into more comfortable clothing and is now lighting a cigarette.

“White male, between twenty and thirty, blue collar job, organized. He planned this. Got the gratification from killing but couldn’t bring himself to violate her. Or maybe he didn’t need to, like Berkowitz.”

“Definitely. Not the assassination type, though, not like Berkowitz. He probably lives in the neighborhood. The police interviewed him already.”

“Cooperative?”

“Sure. Saw her at the café, maybe spoke to her. He would have been a regular. But not very charming or confident. Someone easily forgotten. He feels inadequate. Has got some kind of external deficit which he perceives as worse than it is – acne scars, I guess – coupled with an internal one. Problems with women. Domineering mother, ex-wife. Divorce could be the stressor. He fantasized about this. She’s a red head. Did you see the color of the blood in the bathtub? It’s the same as her hair. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took a souvenir.”

Bill’s forehead crinkles. “Hair?” Holden gives him a look. “Pubic hair?” Holden shrugs at Bill’s disgusted face. 

“What’s interesting is the staging. He wanted police to think it was a suicide. But at the same time it’s posing. He gets off on thinking about her in that specific scenario; the blood. He must have practiced on animals. What do you think about IQ?”

“Must be above average intelligence – the picked door, no fingerprints, the attempted staging? Probably thinks he’s fucking god after the police interviewed him and he got away with it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone by now.” 

“Could be.”

“You think he’s going to do it again?”

“Certainly. He’s got a taste for it now. He’ll want to sophisticate his MO.”

An old memory wedges itself between the photos of Ava and Bill’s impressed face.

“Kemper he –” Holden stops, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to ground himself in the moment.

“Holden? You’re ok?”

“Kemper once told me that the women he killed became his spirit wives. The UNSUB? I think he’s doing the same. He couldn’t possess Ava, not the way he wanted, so he killed her, so that no one could. The next time he sees a pretty face, he’ll feel compelled to do it again.”

Holden closes the file and leans back in his chair, rubbing his palms over his face to dispel some of the tension.

“Did that help?” he asks, peering at Bill who snuffs the cigarette in the ashtray. Nods.

“I’ll forward the profile.”

“Give them some advice on how to conduct the interview if they’ve got a suspect while you’re at it.”

He slides the dossier over the table to Bill and stands to get something to drink for his dry throat.

Back turned to his partner, he only hears his voice but can imagine the expression on his face nonetheless, “You’re sure you don’t want to come back?” 

Holden’s shoulders rise and fall, without him uttering a word.

*

He thinks about it a lot throughout the following months. As winter turns to spring and the first flowers greet him while he’s sitting in the garden and thinking about his therapy session, he reckons there’s nothing else he’d rather like doing. The BSU has grown so fast in the past few years; grown beyond its initial premise into something the FBI is proud of. And he was part of it. Reason for it. Already there’s a new generation of agents coming in and being trained. Can he really leave it all behind? Turn his back on the very thing he established? Leave Bill to deal with it alone until he retires? Wendy? Who quit her stable job in Boston to work with them? Have them finish the manual without him?

Sipping his tea and watching the sun breaking through the clouds, Holden comes to the conclusion that he can’t. Doesn’t want to.

When he informs Bill of his decision after his return from a case in Texas, Bill squeezes his hand and tells him that they’ll find a way to make it work. That Holden won’t be abandoned again to fly across the country and work case after case without help. This time Bill, the whole department, will have his back.

His decision made, he looks forward to the day of his return with trepidation and excitement. A few days later, he wakes up to Bill’s alarm and begins a new routine. He irons both their shirts as Bill hops under the shower. While Bill dresses, he washes his face, brushes his teeth and emerges from the bathroom to the smell of coffee and breakfast, which is bagged into two brown paper bags.

Taking the last sip from his coffee, Bill asks, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Holden sighs and turns to put on his shoes.

While Bill drives them towards Quantico, he bombards Holden with encouraging words to ease his anxiety. It only minimally helps. He’s still fiddling with his tie, still trying to control his galloping heartbeat. It gets faster the closer they come and by the time Bill parks the car, his palms are sweaty and his face on fire.

Holden doesn’t know how he manages to walk from the car to the building and into the elevator without collapsing under the sheer pressure he imposes upon himself. It’s like he can’t stop shoveling his own grave even as the earth is crashing down on top of him.

Inside the elevator Bill asks him concerned, “Do you need to take a Valium?” 

Holden shakes his head. “I’m fine.”

The doors open. The familiar bleak grey corridor is in front of him.

Bill’s hand at the small of his back steers him out into it and towards the annex. He can hear voices.

And then they enter the office. And Holden stops, like a deer caught in the headlights. A few seconds later the first people recognize him, turn to him and smile. Others tap colleagues on shoulders and point in his direction. It takes a few seconds for the noise of chattering, papers being copied and all the other sources of disturbance to cease.

Every face is turned towards Holden.

Another noise bursts through the temporary silence. Applause.

Jim is the first to clap and is soon joined by the whole BSU.

Looking at the sheer amount of people willing to teach others their knowledge, to bring justice to the victims, to keep this unit going, to greet him back with open arms, has Holden grinning. Bill’s arm winds around his shoulders, shaking him in good humor.

“I told you, didn’t I?” 

After the applause, the hugging begins. It’s not the final destination, not by a long shot. It’s another step in his recovery. An essential one he didn’t envision before he lifted his foot to take it on this steep ladder upwards only to find that there is indeed another stepping stone instead of nothingness and a deep plummet down.

Holden doesn’t cry.

He smiles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments & Concrit appreciated. If you spot a mistake, feel free to point it out.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments & Concrit appreciated. If you spot a mistake, feel free to point it out. Thanks!


End file.
